Crystal Jackson

Archive for 2012|Yearly archive page

book giveaway

In books, cabin in the woods on February 19, 2012 at 11:27 am

It’s time for another book giveaway. As with the last giveaway–Travels with Charley–this book is one that I have an emotional connection to. A book that transports me away from where I’m sitting each time I open it up. The book = Tiny Homes – Simple Shelter by Lloyd Kahn.

I’ve often mentioned Lloyd Kahn, a writer/builder/creator/small house movement leader/badass dude. He posts in his blog every day, often more than once, sharing stories about life in N. California. He has a zest for living that I find inspiring, and I aspire to be a little bit like Lloyd in my daily life – noticing beauty, enjoying other people’s talents, paying attention to the details, dreaming, taking risks, making shit happen.

Tiny Homes – Simple Shelter was released last month and is already in its second printing. One reason the book is so popular is it embodies the housing/lifestyle movement of the moment, as people look to get out from under suffocating mortgages and simplify their lives. Another reason for its popularity is that it’s a beautiful book–gorgeous, glowing and green. Even if small houses aren’t your thing, you can enjoy it from a purely artistic standpoint. And I think by the end of the book, you’d find that maybe you are sort of interested in small dwellings.

Here’s a video featuring Lloyd discussing the making of the book.

If you want to see what it is I keep prattling on about and would like your own copy of Tiny Homes, leave a comment on this post about a dream that you have for the future. Big, little, crazy or sane. Whatever you feel like sharing. I’ll pick a person at random next Sunday to receive the book. Make sure to give your real email address when you leave your comment (only I will be able to see it), but feel free to leave a fake name if you’re shy.

I’ll start. Some day, I want to live in a place with no mortgage. Where the area outside my home is as much a part of my house as the inside is. A clutter-free space with room to breathe, lovely views, a fireplace, a bed in a cozy nook, lots of books and music, dogs and James. And wifi. The air is crisp and green. There’s water nearby. Ideally, this place will have been built with my two hands and my back, and the hands and backs of people close to me. It’s located within an hour of a major city, but far enough out that the sheer volume of stars is overwhelming and humbling. A place where the zombie apocalypse probably won’t reach.

Your turn.

spell check, mofos

In Houston, stupidization, the internets, travel on February 15, 2012 at 8:16 pm

Were my driving and photography skills better able to coexist, the photo above would have captured what I wanted to show you. Instead, you’ll have to take my word for it.

That electronic sign there on the right is supposed to let people know that, since the 45 N exit is closed, they should use the Heights exit. Only it says Heigths instead. And it has been misspelled since Friday last week. Either they don’t know, don’t show or don’t care about what’s going on in the hood.

(insert pithy segue) I’m glad Valentine’s Day is over. Facebook was intolerable yesterday. I kept waiting to see a photo of a chick with a bouquet of flowers poking out of her ass, an ugly tennis bracelet blinging on her arm and a row of chocolate stained teeth grinning wide with the comment, “OMG! BEST BOYFRIEND EVER!! I LUV U BOO♥” underneath it. These are usually the same chicks who are masters of passive-aggressive facebook commentary the rest of the year. You know, things like, “Well that’s the LAST time I’m going out of my way to do something nice for someone WHO OBVIOUSLY DOESN’T CARE enough to say thank you.” I’m glad guys don’t feel the need to wax poetic about the blow job or oil change gift certificate or tie or whatever they get on VD.

Here’s a nice thought. Tomorrow (hopefully) I’m going to announce the next book giveaway on this blog. Watch this space. Tomorrow. Or maybe Friday. But soon.

And Happy Valentine’s Day. I may not have sent flowers you could show off to your bitter coworkers, but I did send sweet thoughts. To most of you.

it even smells the same

In family, the arts on February 12, 2012 at 7:34 pm

Sadly, I'm still looking for a fuzzy pumper.

Last weekend was my nephew Rowan’s third birthday. Now that he’s getting a little older, buying presents for him is becoming more fun. Instead of ironic baby tee shirts that reference my youth and not his, I can now buy him fun toys (that also reference my youth). What I mean is, I’m now able to give him shit that I want to play with.

Case in point: for his birthday we gave him a bunch of Play-Doh (24 different colors, if you can imagine that) (even black, for the goth kids) and a collection of molds to make camping stuff (logs for the fire, hamburger, hot dog, fish, bugs, bear shitting in the woods, Unabomber). What started as an effort to engage Rowan in his new toys at his birthday party turned into me hoarding the cooler molds and colors and elbowing everyone else out of the way.

Who knew playing with Play-doh would still be so fun? And surprisingly gratifying? Tohner made a good point – with Play-Doh, you’re not really worried about the final product. It’s a temporary thing you’re creating just long enough to go, “Hey look! I made a purple spider with blue eyes!” before smashing it all together in your fist. I love doing stuff with my hands, but I’m usually working toward some end game. With the Play-doh, it is all about the experience. Would it be creepy if I bought a set for our house? I could always say it’s for when the kids visit.

Oh, and it still smells exactly the same. Even though it’s probably made in China from lead and asbestos now.

PS (unrelated) – Why is there a cartoon Napoleon Dynamite? That just seems like a bad idea all the way around.

gusto hurts

In stupidization on January 29, 2012 at 6:48 pm

Let it not be said that I don’t do things with gusto.

Thursday morning, I was leaving for work with my hands full. Backpack, lunch bag, notebook and large water bottle in a one-handed juggle as I used the other hand to close the front door. As I stepped through the threshold, I was taken for a moment by the blueness of the sky. We’ve had a lot of gray days, and though I don’t suffer from seasonal affective disorder (except around August when I’m depressed about how hot I’ve been for so many months in a row), I was happy to see a bright, clear sky. So happy, in fact, that I paid little attention to what my right hand was doing as I thought to myself, “What a beautiful fucking day.”

Our front door has been sticking since we got that huge dose of rain a few weeks back. The sticking has required a decent amount of force to open and shut the door. In addition, our doorknob is about an inch closer to the door jamb than it should be. I’ve (gently) knocked my hand on the threshold a number of times over the two plus years we’ve lived here. I don’t know who built this place, but I think the builder was on whatever the ’50s version of crack was. A lot of things about this house are a little…off. Wall sockets are crooked, the floors slope (though I think that relates to a jacked foundation), there are phantom light switches that don’t seem to control anything in the house. Coupled with what we assume is a dog’s grave in the backyard, it just adds to the charm.

Now you have the back story. Hands full, distractingly beautiful morning, door doesn’t shut unless you jerk it hard. All of this leads to me pulling the door shut with not a little bit of torque, effectively slamming my hand in the jamb. It hurt so badly, my knees went weak. I stumbled back into the house to drop the load I was carrying and whimper. But no tears. The only thing that makes me cry is emotional pain.

The gash in my hand is healing and the entire thing is an ugly blue-green, but all my digits are still able to digitize (as evidenced by this blog post), so I think everything will be okay. I just need to slow my roll on the multi-tasking in the morning.

shouldn’t have tried to be fancy

In animals, burger, food and drink on January 27, 2012 at 1:16 pm

Being an old pro at visiting burger joints, shacks and shanties, I should have known better. It was an amateur mistake, and it led to my not having any lunch yesterday.

Here’s the deal. I needed to hit an old school and previously unvisited (by me) burger stand so I could gather information to write a profile about it for a client. I’m the perfect person for this job, no? A few coworkers came along for the journey. It was a pretty, breezy day, just right for sitting outside and chomping on a burger.

It happened so fast. The menu (multiple pages) was plastered on the window of the stand. Too many choices. Tacos, burgers, fried shrimp, tortas. There were people in line behind me, so I didn’t have the luxury of perusing my options. I had to go for it. This is where I went off script. See, they had a sign proclaiming the arrival of chicken strips, which they seemed to be very excited about. The excitement was contagious because out of my mouth came, “Chicken strips, please” instead of “cheeseburger, all the way.” And that’s when the train went off the tracks.

Don’t know if the chicken strips they’re so excited about are good or not because that is not, in fact, what was in my bag when they handed me my order. I ended up with fried chicken. On the bone. Though I’m an avowed meat eater, I draw the line at eating things on the bone. The act of ripping meat with my teeth grosses me out. A silly thing, but a thing just the same.

I tried tearing bite-size pieces of the chicken off with my fingers, but the skin was so greasy and hard it was an impossible task. The pigeons that quickly surrounded our table seemed pretty interested, but I don’t feed bird to birds. I looked at the fat pigeons that were so barrel-chested I doubt they can fly anymore. I looked at my chicken, which was of a similar size. I made an uncomfortable connection between the two. I gave up.

The lesson here? When visiting a burger joint, don’t try to be fancy or you might end up with an order of fried pigeon-chicken.

searching

In lists, the internets on January 19, 2012 at 9:18 pm

A selection of search terms that brought this blog traffic over the past month:

  • how to shit in the wood
  • too many fucking disappointments are a sign of too many fucking expectations
  • fat trucker girl tattoo
  • grandmother fuck
  • i don’t trust people that don’t drink
  • big tits laying over sides
  • how to find a hooker at i-80 truck stop
  • local women to fuck near houston texas
  • monkey flipping the bird
  • my eyes went cockeyed
  • accidental beaver shot
  • my mom makes me wanna punch someone face
  • baby alive doll is unresponsive
  • “do you sees it”
  • wet denim crotch
  • phil collins witnessing a murder
  • i need internet in my cabin in the woods
  • this outdoor bbq turns into a hot tushy licking appetizer before the main course
  • neighbors tits
  • old biddies fucking
  • testicles jammed in pooper
  • good morning assholes
  • now it’s mother fucking hammer time

Seriously, what is wrong with people?

stink eye

In awkward, people be trippin', shopping on January 15, 2012 at 12:44 pm

I always get my weekly grocery shopping out of the way on Sunday morning, no matter how late my Saturday night might have been. If you don’t go early on Sunday, you end up knee-deep in the throngs of slow shoppers. They chat in front of the produce scales instead of weighing their shit and moving on. They leave their cart in the middle of the aisle to look at something shiny that caught their eye. They stand three across discussing the merits of this salad dressing versus that. It’s maddening for a person who walks fast and writes her grocery list in the order the items appear in the store in order to eliminate unnecessary browsing. Sounds fun, huh? That’s why I go alone.

Because it’s early and I pretty much literally roll out of bed, put on clothes and head to the store, I don’t make much eye contact while I’m shopping. Not looking to get into a conversation with the chipper lady who’s been up since 6 or the crusty old man who can’t find the chutney.

I was nearing the end of my weekly chore this morning when I broke my rule. I was on the main aisle and needed to turn left to get some detergent. There was a guy coming my direction whom I needed to let pass before I could move forward. I glanced up, and he was looking me dead in the eye. Giving me the stink eye. He looked at me like I’d just puked on his grocery basket or called his mama a whore. I’m looking at him, probably with surprise on my face, and he’s staring at me as he continues pushing his shopping cart, having to turn his head as he goes by in order to maintain angry eye contact. This went on for a few seconds, which is fairly intense for this type of interaction.

It was so weird, I sort of wanted to turn around and follow him to see what the deal was. Instead, I kept walking.

Awkward.

 

open letter

In running away, things that surprise me, people be trippin', open letter, Houston, random on January 10, 2012 at 9:09 pm

Dear Man Jogging Down I-10 Around 7PM Tonight During Heavy Traffic,

I saw you for the first time a couple of hours ago on my way home from work. I was driving my car on the freeway when something caught my eye. It was something that moved unlike a car. A bit of whimsy in the midst of smog-inducing, butt-numbing traffic. It was you, jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you had been loosed upon the tundra after a period of confinement.

You were in my sights for no more than a moment or two, yet I still took in the details of your being. You were wearing a white shirt, black shorts and exercise shoes of some flavor. Your clothes were snug, as if you wanted nothing to slow you down. You had good form and appeared to move quickly, though not as quickly as I was, even in traffic, sitting on my ass in my car, listening to music, looking at you. I wonder how many other drivers almost popped their necks, jerking their heads to look to the right. At you, jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you were on the first leg of a short run.

There exists the possibility that your car broke down and you’d forgotten your cellphone, so you were forced to let your feet do the jogging. But you weren’t in work attire (unless you work as a model for bike shorts). And you weren’t moving like someone who had the misfortune to break down on the freeway. Granted, I’ve never seen anyone jogging away from their abandoned car, but I would imagine there would be a resigned hunch in their shoulders, a “why me” sort of gait. But you, you were jogging down the shoulder of the freeway as if you were in the midst of an urban workout that requires adrenaline and a death wish. Or as if you were running from zombies–a cautionary tale for the rest of us. No, I know what it was.

You were jogging down the shoulder of the freeway the way I would jog to a wine and puppy party.

Whatever your destination and whatever your reason(s), I hope you made it where you were going. Thanks for making the drive home more…confusing.

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